Page 9 of The General's Gift
“Don’t tell me you plan to enlist her in your regiment and teach her to lob grenades at her suitors!”
“Enlisting her is not a bad idea,” Hawk said dryly. “But I dare say she’d blow herself up before she learned to arm the fuse. Still, discipline and order will do her good.”
“Celeste is sweet, a dreamer. She will wilt in such a sterile world.”
Beyond the glass, sunlight caught in Lady Cecilia’s hair, and Hawk’s fingers itched to touch the fiery strands.
Katherina’s gaze moved from him to the nymph drifting through his garden. “Then again… knowing Celeste, perhaps she will bring some cheer into your house.”
Hawk’s mouth curved, humorless. Napoleon’s best had failed to breach his lines. He would not be undone by a slip of a girl in tulle.
Celeste forced her legs to take measured steps. The grass was wet, and soon her slippers would be stained, but she buried her nose in Othello’s fur and trudged on, hoping no one was watching her shameful escape. Her arms shook as she released Othello. While he sniffed the tulips, she watched her wavering reflection in the water. She resisted the impulse to sprinkle her flaming cheeks. Instead, she took great gulps of air, trying to calm herself. She had done it again. Allowed Papillon to control her. And now here she was, hiding in the garden like a child caught peeking at rehearsals.
What was wrong with her? She had been perfectly safe. But the way he had looked at her hair—like she were some kind of apparition. Her stomach had dropped, and her legs had carried her off before she could stop them. What sort of heroine fled before the first act even began? He must think her the gauchest of creatures.
She chanced a peek into the office. Through the glass doors, she saw only his massive silhouette. Perhaps he would send her away. At least she would never have to see him again and die ofshame.
The door creaked open. When her Caesar-like host stepped into the garden, she braced herself to be more than a sad Ophelia, but Othello attacked.
Barking like mad, he latched onto the general’s boots—thankfully, he could not reach higher—and pressed his teeth into the leather.
The general stilled and looked down. Then, with an aplomb that had to be ingrained from birth, he lifted one incredulous brow.
Celeste gasped, reaching to scoop up her misguided warrior. “Othello! No!”
Dislodging the little menace, she gathered him into her arms. “I am so sorry, my lord. He is not usually so… jealous.”
She dared a glance up, bracing for his disapproval.
His lips quirked. “Perhaps Iago whispered some slander against my boots.”
Celeste blinked, and laughter spilled from her lips before she could stop it. The sound startled her. Not because he had disapproved—but because it had come too easily, slipping out like a secret. She hadn’t expected to laugh in his company, let alone feel lighter for it.
Covering her mouth, she lifted cautious eyes to him. Even Louise, who hated the English, had said he was honorable and well-admired in military circles. The General Who Never Surrendered. That was his epithet, Louise had declared, with more awe than hatred.
“We need to talk, Lady Cecilia,” he said.
He had one of those bass voices that could carry to the back row without shouting. If he ever took to the stage, half the mezzanine would faint on cue and the rest would stand at attention.
Celeste twisted her tulle skirt. “About the plays?”
“About your future.”
Celeste nodded gravely. The garden, with its flowers and merciful lack of guns, seemed far less stuffy than his war room. She sat on the bench and was grateful when he didn’t move to sit by her side. He folded his hands behind his back and kept a respectful distance.
From the cover of her eyelashes, she peeped at his dark blue uniform. He had no cravat wound at his throat, no perfumed lace spilling from his collar. Nothing of the oily elegance she dreaded in men. The fabric was severe, the kind of cloth meant to endure weather and war, not seduce. And his scent… soap, leather, starch. Not the cloying colognes that clung like stains, heavy with hidden intent. Against all reason, the soldier’s austerity felt safer than any gentleman’s frill, and Papillon settled her fluttering wings.
“I’m your guardian, and as such, I administer your inheritance. “
How odd. Guardians were old and benevolent, with ruddy cheeks and white beards. Guardians weren’t supposed to look like Julius Caesar with the dash of Hotspur and the scowl to match.
The waning sunlight caressed his tanned skin and reflected in his silvery hair. Instead of making him look old, the silver added to his gravitas. The part of her that was wildly imaginative pictured him riding his horse downhill, a saber in his right hand, a battle cry on his lips. He should count himself fortunate that he was charging male soldiers, because if he went against a group of Amazons, they would probably keep him.
Which was a ridiculous thought if she ever had any, and before he could infer how much, she hugged Othello tighter.
“Why did … did my father choose you?” Speaking the word father left a strange taste in her mouth. She had never allowedherself to think about her parents. Why, when she had been an orphan for as long as she could remember?
“The Marquess of Faversham trusted me to find you,” Hawk said, his voice clipped, official. “And once I did, he trusted me to take care of you.”
